Just Another "Jerk"

Kate used to smoke.

She quitted it a year ago. Well... Supposedly. I bet she still smokes. That's the only reason for her leaving the bar to take short walks.

During the days I tried to make her quit, the only thing she, my friend of twenty-one years, said was that she liked holding it like an old friend.

I felt insulted.

I know the day she started it and the day she quitted. So what have I done to deserve this?

I don't know either.

Ten years, three months, seven days, one hour, twenty-two minutes and four seconds ago if I had stopped her from smoking her first cigarette maybe right now, I wouldn't be this miserable.

It was normal when she came to my house this evening. I swear, everything was normal.

In a weird way.

I expected her to insult “the jerk” and complain about how he acted, it (probably cheating) being so obvious and how much she didn't like him, but still she didn't say anything cause she loves me. None of this ever happened.

All she said was “Stop wearing yellow, woman.”

Those of you who don't know her, Kate is one of those people who does these long monologues that questions everything from life to a spoon with other people in the room just to start a subject. That's why when we go out to drink, she gets drunk latest because she's doing the talks while we open new bottles of red wine.

Right now, with my red satin dress on, I'm sitting on a bar stool and waiting for the barmen to change shifts just to get a new glass 'cause Marty, Kate's current partner's colleague is very boring. It's not about me, seriously. I tried very hard to focus, it is impossible. He is talking in slow motion and he is...

He is just another “jerk”. What's the point of hitting on him?

Thanks Kate. Seriously, it's really appreciated.

Well... At least the new bartender's here. I need some alcohol.

Day After

I wake up to the ringing of my cell phone, and realise it's two in the afternoon. Thinking about it, I was grateful to him for dumping me on a Friday, because I could have a whole night to myself for crying my eyes out, and an afternoon to sleep away the pain in my heart. Not a quarter of the pain is gone, but at least I don't have to explain anyone my crappy looks and even crappier mood.
Once seeing the caller, who woke me up recklessly -in the afternoon-, I know I've been wrong. It's Kate, a true psychic, who can read minds and faces, and tell a jerk from a two yards distance, and who happens to be my best friend. I can't decide wether to be happy or nervous to see her calling, because I can tell, knowing her for 17 years now, that our conversation will include both of the sentences "I'm so sorry sweetheart" and "I told you so."
Nevertheless, I pick up my phone and answer: "Hello."
My voice gives me right away and so the familiar sound of the combination of my bestfriends interest and mockery is on the other side: "What happened?!"
Like she doesn't know damn well what has happened.
"It's that jerk again, isn't it? What did he do? I swear I'm going to kick him in the ass, very soon." she says, and goes on about her plans to beat him up. I appreciate my friends enthusiasm about destroying him, but I can't bare the word of him anymore, so I cut her words and say bluntly "He broke up with me."
There is a long silence on the phone, except my sniffings, and we both don't know what to say, only for a little while. Kate does what she does best and says "I really didn't want to say this, but, I told you he was a jerk."
"I know" I say, but only to myself, still trying to solve the puzzles in my mind. Being a girl who believes in dreams but not naive enough to believe in fairytales, I had a lot of belief in our relationship. He and I weren't the dream couple, nor the best match. You could tell that our relationship was nothing near fairytale-like, and that's why I knew it was real. I knew we weren't perfect, and honestly, I always thought what made our relationship strong, was our will to stay together despite our imperfection.
Then comes my consolation, when Kate says "I'm so sorry sweetheart" and offers to visit me today after her shift at the old Concert Hall is over. I say "No need" lovingly, and tell her I need a little time on my own. She agrees, with the one condition of taking me out on Monday evening. "For drinks" she says, "to get your mind off of things". I find it hard to believe that a couple of Sex on the Beaches will help me get our imperfect-yet-perfect relationship out of my head, but I agree on it anyway.

The Ticks and the Tocks

The waitress gives me a look from the back of her dusty blue counter. If one is able to say “I told you so,” with her eyes, I swear she's an expert on it. She knows that something is wrong when I want the check with an unfinished cherry pie in front of me, because she is the same waitress that served us last night, and the night before that and the night before that.

She takes her ponytail braid to the front and fixes the very end of it while passing through the counters. She is one of those girls who like their hair braided. She reminds me of my childhood, how my mother used to braid my hair because she thought braids made me look more Tess like. Nowadays all she can do is to accuse me of being too young and too helpless.

The waitress comes to us, holding the check in her left hand. She hesitates but turns to me first, than to him; searching for a sign of responsibility in our eyes, a direction. I'm terrified to make a move. Terrified to speak or to take a breath. If it was possible, I could sit there forever staring at his green eyes waiting for a response; until a wise mind reminds me of that I cannot spend the rest of my life in a coffee shop, sitting at a wooden table, waiting.

He closes his eyes in a way that they do in the movies only. Imagine an eye and the eye closes softly, slow-motion; but you have to admit that it is so fucking slow that you want to rip the eyelid away. I wonder if he does it deliberately, to make me feel the very light essence of the ticks and the tocks.

He takes his wallet out while he switches his legs, making a move to stand up. At the same time amazing me with his speed. 5$ for his cappuccino but with less milk, 6$ for my small hot chocolate plus 40 cents for extra cream, 10$ for double sized cherry pie, no charge for a cup of water. Total of 21.40$, without the tip. He doesn't feel well, I bet he is going to forget the tip. Moreover the look on the waitress' face flashes everything.

The moment he takes a step, he pauses and turns to me. I can feel the last moments of my waiting. He bents down next to me, getting support from the wooden table. Nervous as hell, he puts a little kiss on my cheek.

“Goodbye, baby.” he says it so easily, just like the song.

I almost hear him sing “I'm gonna leave you now,” while he is heading towards the front door.

There is no reminder anymore, no lover, no braider. Even the pie maker has left the shop. But the clock is there, ticking only; 'cause it seems he stole the tocks before drifting away.